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Not metaphorically, but literally — enduring unbearable physical and spiritual pain to smuggle salvation through her own flesh. She did not scream. She arched her back. But when Verena pressed her gloved hand to Roxy’s thigh and began the process — careful, slow, unforgiving — all pretense shattered. “You carried the future,” he said. No weapons. Cold. Her body was already tense. It was a tool. Her journey is one of devotion beyond pride, of suffering beyond honor. “This has never been done. Vents hissed. Her hands clawed at the stone floor, her legs trembling violently. Her entire body resisted — locked up — twisted in silent torment. After endless minutes, the pressure shifted. Her vision swam. Only two souls breathed in that silent chamber: Sister Roxy, stripped of everything but faith — and Priestess Verena, whose hands trembled despite decades of ritual calm. Lights flickered. In the grim darkness of the 41st millennium, where war consumes entire systems and faith is often the only armor